


Jumping To Conclusions

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did I get anything wrong?” asked Sherlock as they got out of the taxi at Laureston Gardens.</p><p>John blinked at him for a moment, wondering where to start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumping To Conclusions

**Author's Note:**

> Not intended as Sherlock-bashing, because I love the guy, but sometimes he does make me eye-roll.

“Did I get anything wrong?” asked Sherlock as they got out of the taxi at Laureston Gardens.

John blinked at him for a moment, wondering where to start. With the first false conclusion Sherlock had drawn, perhaps – he had been in neither Iraq nor Afghanistan, but rather in Val d'Isère, skiing. Skiing in bright sunlight whilst wearing a ski-suit, hence his tan ending at his sleeves. His limp was from a nasty fall he'd taken the day before he headed home, although the injury from that was almost entirely healed. He'd been exaggerating it for the benefit of anyone he ran into from work. Stumbling around with a cane, faking pain, was more than worth it for another few days of sick leave.

Or maybe he should tell Sherlock that he'd never been in the Army and definitely never wanted to be. He had gone to an Army boarding school and yeah, okay, maybe he'd taken some of the marching and drilling to heart and let it affect his posture, but he definitely didn't have an Army haircut. It was just the same haircut the cheapest barber in Stratford gave every bloke who went in without caring too much what he came out looking like as long as his hair was shorter.

He'd never trained as a doctor at Barts either, he'd just worked there as a cleaner whilst trying to get some sort of qualification that would get him a half-decent job. He'd met Mike then, when they'd both thought it would be a laugh to go along to the Barts Darts Club, and then had mutually decided that it really wasn't and nipped off together for a pint before they'd been there half an hour.

When they'd run into each other yesterday and got to chatting about some of the crazy people they'd met there, Mike had got a gleeful look and said, “Oh, there's this guy you just have to meet, John. He has to be experienced to be believed.” Next thing John knew, he was shaking hands with Sherlock, trying to work out if he was an escaped mental patient or involved in an elaborate prank with Mike.

It had taken him only a few minutes to realise that he didn't care which, because Sherlock was hot enough to get away with almost anything. It was with that in mind, and the hope of a quickie somewhere along the line, coupled with an irresistible curiosity to find out what other crazy 'facts' Sherlock might come up with that John had gone to meet him today, despite not needing a flatshare.

And then there was all the stuff about his phone. John wasn't sure whether to applaud Sherlock for his flights of fancy there, or be seriously worried that someone could be so confident based on some extremely circumstantial evidence. If he really worked with the police using that sort of logic, then no wonder justice in this country was a bit of a hit-or-miss affair.

Harry Watson wasn't his brother, she was his sister-in-law, although he supposed he could forgive the gender assumption. Clara had given the phone to her on their wedding day, putting in her new surname in order to highlight that she was now a Watson, and that they were family. As for the scratches around the socket, there were plenty of sober people with trembling hands. When Harry's Parkinson's had become too bad for her to be able to even operate the phone, she'd propped it up on the mantelpiece, right next to where John had been standing when he'd told her and Clara he'd broken his phone tumbling arse-over-kettle on a black run he'd got a bit too Ski Sunday on. Both Harry and Clara were more practical than sentimental and it only seemed logical for him to borrow it for a week or so until he could get a new one.

Sherlock was still giving him an expectant look, waiting for John's verdict. John thought about how quick he had been to drag John along with him, about how close he'd stood to John earlier, staring down at him as if he was the only thing in the room, and coupled those thoughts with the memory of his arse in those unbelievably tight trousers. He could be an ex-Army doctor for a couple more days if it meant he might get to see him out of those trousers as well.

“Harry is short for Harriet,” he said in the end, and gave Sherlock a grin. Sherlock scowled as if the world was coming to an end, and John thought, _Yeah, definitely don't tell him the rest until after I've got my leg over._


End file.
